christen
by makapedia
Summary: She gets the urge in the strangest locations - but that's Death Children for you, he supposes. Graveyards are the equivalent of a normal teen's make-out point.


from a prompt on tumblr! it was from a nsfw kink list: inappropriate location.

* * *

These Death Children will be the end of him.

Maka Albarn, specifically.

The grass is itchy along his neck, but Maka doesn't seem to care; her hand are pulling up the hem of his shirt, greedily soaking in the feel of his skin. That grinning, bleeding moon hovers overhead like a spotlight and Soul stares for a moment, wondering, considering how he ever ended up here, with his pants undone in a graveyard, with a gasping, blushing girl pressing her lips to his jaw like religion.

"Haaah, _Maka-_ " he garbles, limbs finally coming to life, as he grabs for her hips, leading her through a slow grind over his boxer-clad erection. "You are the weirdest person I have ever met."

There is absolutely nothing sexy about a cemetery. It's creepy. They fought Sid two rows down from here years ago. It's _macabre,_ for fuck's sake. And yet Maka is mounted on top of him, head tipped back to the starry-lit sky, sobbing his name. And yet he's rocking a hardon, despite his complaining, palms glued tight to her waist as he attempts to memorize that place between her thighs, so hot and mesmerizing and soft.

The line of her throat is so beautiful. He wants to bite it, just a little, just to mark it, for his own selfish reasons. He's always had a bit of fascination with seeing her undone, just a little bit - unbuttoned collars and loose ties, lopsided pigtails and sweat-sheen skin - and tonight is no exception. Every time she works herself over him her skirt rides up, little increments at a time, and there's so much lily-white thigh on display that he wants to bite those, too. Twin hickies, right there on her soft, bare skin.

Maka bites her lip, sucks it between her teeth. The way she looks down at him, green eyes luminous and mighty, is something words can't paint, something that burns his blood and makes his dick twitch. "You- _oh,_ " she gasps, brows knit, as she squirms, as if she can feel him writhe beneath her.

"Fuck. _Fuck_."

Her eyes burn a shade darker as she mutters, "I want you."

It's nuts. The whole thing is nuts, but he helps lift her off his hips, helps her tug his boxers down past his ass to let his shaft spring free, helps her push her panties aside. The bizarrity of the situation isn't lost on him but Soul knows better than to voice it further - not when he's so very close to heaven, not when Maka's hips fit so neatly in his hands, not when her chest heaves with breath as she sinks down upon him.

Death City is not for the weak of heart and neither are its inhabitants. Soul supposes he's one of them now, too, and is being freshly christened in the local graveyard by his legacy-born meister.

There are no words for the way Maka Albarn feels, only jumbled thoughts and sensations. Hot. Warm. Wet. Maka. Maka. Yes, yes, _Maka._

She rocks her hips forward and he falls to her lead, fingers clasped tight around her skirt-clad hips. The whole world has melted away to contain only her, with grass-stained knees and fiery eyes, working herself so diligently, using him to gain release and giving, and giving, and _giving._ He's wired tight, ready to snap, and moves a hand only to find his way under her skirt, because he'll be damned if he'll be the only one breaking in Death City's most infamous hook up spot tonight.

He's a gentleman, after all, and gentlemen don't leave ladies behind. When he finds her clit she makes a whining sound, deep in her throat, and he feels it reverb all around him - and _that_ notion, that he's buried deep in his meister, never fails to hurry things along for him, so he gets to work. Each time he passes by that interesting, slick little nub, her hips work a little faster, occasionally falter a little more, and Soul stares at her face, hypnotized.

It's not cheating the game if it makes her feel so good. It's not discouraging, knowing she needs a little more than just his cock to shake her hips on in order to find release - if anything, it's a challenge, and it's the only challenge Soul has ever felt confident rising to, time and time again. It's a good use for his hands, for his fingers, trained so carefully on the piano.

Watching the way she pants, feeling her, so hot and wet as he rubs and circles and works her - it's _hot._ So hot, in the way it makes his chest roar and tongue fuzzy and face burn.

And then, it happens - that _ah-ha!_ moment, and her world is rocked - and Maka breaks around him, thighs shaking, whimpering, _whimpering_ his name, and that's all Soul's ever really needed to come.

Maka crumbles on him, face buried in the crook of his neck, as she finds her way back down from the stars. He busies his hands with mapping out the shape of her back, so strong and resilient, and waits for her breathing to even out again. She exhales slowly, then kisses his neck. When she giggles nervously, he squeezes the small of her back and presses a smile into her hair.

"You're the kinkiest little bookworm I've ever met," he says when her giggling stops.

Maka kisses his throat, just barely, and leans back to smile shyly at him. "This is where we resonated for the first time."

"Eeeh," he hums, allowing his hands to slip down and pat her bum. "I think it was a few rows over. We kind of left a giant crater in our wake. Almost took off Black*Star's head."

She shushes him and dots his nose with a kiss. "You know what I mean. We have history here. It was important to us, and-"

"And then you came. In a graveyard. Someone's buried over here, Maka."

She smiles, all nerd and meister rolled into one, and says, "You're the one on the ground, Soul," and he can't even argue. He has dead leaves in his hair and a warrior of a girl on top of him, pigtails crooked and eyes warm, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Except maybe a bed.


End file.
